


how to punch a god in the face: an amateur's guide

by SpontaneouslyAWOL



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Drabble Collection, Women Being Awesome, canon-typical implied non-con, local man gets angry and accidentally assembles an army: the adventure, off-screen and very vague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-23 14:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14334942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpontaneouslyAWOL/pseuds/SpontaneouslyAWOL
Summary: (inspired by a prompt)You’re an ancient Greek man coming home from 4 months of war to find your wife 3 months pregnant. Now you’ve embarked on a solemn quest: to punch Zeus in the face.





	1. Kyros

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Olympus is the home of gods. It sits at the peak of Mount Olympus, surrounded by clouds and divine protection. It lies over half a country away, and while forbidden to mortals, it is not unheard of for humans to climb it to petition the gods. Mount Olympus is, all things considered, a very climbable sort of mountain.

Standing frozen in the doorway to your own home, staring at your tearful wife, her hands on a bump that you definitely did not contribute to, you are suddenly, viscerally grateful for this fact.

“Kyros,” Astraia says, voice thick. Her eyes are bright with moisture, and her shoulders tremble, but you have been married for a year, friends for far longer, and you know how she looks when upset. There is some of it now, in her clenched jaw and raised chin, but your wife only cries for one reason. Astraia is  _ furious _ . “My husband.”

“My wife,” you reply. You step forward carefully, letting your pack slip to the floor. The sword at your hip is heavy. You reach for hands, and she lets you tug her into a gentle embrace. Catching up can wait; Astraia needs you more than you need a rest. “What do you ask of me?”

“Three months ago, a man came to me in your form,” she murmurs, face buried in your shoulder. The words are soft, but they ring in your ears like a war cry. Her hands curl into your worn shirt. “I knew it was not you, but he seemed tired, so I let him in. We ate, and we talked, and we drank.”

She stops, and you run a hand through her hair. It hangs loose for once, thick and dark as the coals in the fireplace. She breathes in, shaky but determined.

“When we were finished, he approached me,” she continues. “He said… our parting had - had been too long. He had missed me, he said. He thought of me in battle, of my hair and my eyes and my - my -” Astraia swallows, then spits out, “he said I had to  _ comfort _ him, as was my  _ wifely duty _ .”

Your wife is a slender woman; her strengths lie in her words and her mind. You are tall, easily twice her width, muscled from hard labour and the recent war. The bump of her stomach tells you all you need to know about what happened next.

You don’t need to ask how she knew it wasn’t you. You married each other for a number of reasons, and carnal desire - specifically the lack of it - was one of them.

“Olympus isn’t far,” you tell her soothingly, mind already working through distances and supplies. “And I’ve learnt quite a bit in my time away.”

Astraia snorts, loud and indelicate, and pulls back. Her lips are curved, but not in a smile. Her dark eyes burn. “It’s halfway across the country,” she points out without mockery.

You shrug. “I’ve gone further to fight someone.”

Your wife laughs, relaxing, and you follow suit. “So tell me, dear wife,” you say, when the two of you calm, “how would you like to visit Olympus?” You don’t want to leave her alone again, and from the way she presses close, neither does she.

“I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.” She rests a hand against your newly-scarred cheek. “I knew marrying you was a good idea.”

You kiss her hair and rest a hand on her hip. “Yours always are.”


	2. Euandros

Olympus isn’t far, but it’s hardly close. The two of you are not quite poor, but travel will be difficult, especially with Astraia’s pregnancy. You don’t have a horse, or a mule, but you have time to deal with that - your wife can still walk, and she doesn’t mind the exercise. “It’ll be good for our health,” she says, patting her stomach.

You’ve always admired Astraia for her strength. It’s been three months, and she’s already determined not to let her assaulter - the two of you have narrowed it down to Zeus, due to the lingering ozone she says he left, and honestly, who else would it be - dictate how she lives. Astraia will make the best of it, and you will be there to support her every step of the way.

Progress is slow. There’s no real rush, so you don’t push; Astraia isn’t used to long, hard marches, and you have little desire to strain her. The two of you walk and talk and learn how the other has changed in the past few months.

Your wife, brilliant and beautiful and brave as a lion, keeps her head covered. She looks down when strange men pass. You hold her hand and squeeze your anger into a jar. It will be useful later on, but not now. You slip your spare knife into her belt, and her smile holds love and teeth in equal measure.

A week after beginning your quest, Astraia is resting in your rented room, while you linger in the tavern below, pondering finances. Your supplies won’t last forever, and neither will your coin. A stranger slumps beside you and orders a mug, resting a wooden crutch beside him. His left foot is missing. He has the same hairstyle as you, scraggly as it grows from military shortness, and dark shadows linger under creased brown eyes. He reeks of cheap wine, and he sways in place. He catches you looking and smirks mockingly.

“Evening, stranger,” he slurs, raising his drink in a mock salute.

You nod back. “Good evening.”

He scoffs. “Good evening, he says. As if there’s something good about it. Pah.” He downs his wine and orders another. “You’re wrong, you know. Nothing good about it, not at all.” He shoves his mug in your face and glares. “You know why?”

Not particularly, but you have the feeling you’re going to learn anyway.

“First, I go to war,” he says, straightening. Having an audience seems to have improved his mood. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’ll fight for my country same as any other man - but the war, it takes me away for a year. I got a wife, pretty little thing, and we’ve barely said our vows before I’m off to gods-damned  _ Macedonia _ or wherever it was. It’s not bad, you know, I get to make friends, kill people, things like that, but then some bastard goes and chops my damned foot off. Feet don’t just grow back!” He frowns at his empty mug and asks for a refill. The barmaid obliges, face slack with boredom. “So I’ve lost my foot, right, and I’m like, don’t worry, Euandros, you can manage. You can’t fight, but you can go back to your wife. She’s probably missing you something terrible, she’s sweet like that. So I pack my bags, limp back here, and what do I see when I walk in the door?”

He stares at you expectantly. You don’t really want to encourage him, but Astraia always called you too helpful for your own good, and his gaze is heavy. “Your wife?”

“My wife, pregnant with some other bastard’s brat!” He spits onto the floor. “Not just any brat, either. No, this one belongs to gods-damned - to some  _ bastard _ from Olympus!”

Euandros, as he called himself, is drunk and angry and sharing a life story you don’t care to hear. You listen, though, and a sense of fellowship blossoms in your chest. One week away from home, and you’ve already met someone else in the same situation. “I know how you feel,” you admit. “Well - not exactly. But some divine ass too advantage of my wife, too. We’re coping, but...”

Euandros swears under his breath. “Awful,” he sums up. “Those - those blights on the good name of marriage, they wouldn’t know faithful if it bit them on the ass.” He quietens, staring into his mug. “And as if he wasn’t content with that, he takes the rest of her, too. Died in childbirth, she did, her and the kid. Pah.”

You pat his arm in sympathy. “I’m going to Olympus,” you find yourself saying, spurred on by the alcohol. “Me and my wife. We’re going to march right up to those gates, and I’m gonna punch our King of the Gods right in his bastard face.” Impulsively, you add, “you can come with us, if you want. Two men stand a better chance at punching a god than one.”

Euandros squints at you, then snorts. “Ask me again when I’m sober, and we’ll see.”

You don’t have to. Astraia isn’t quite sure what to make of your random invitation, but she has a few hours to consider outcomes before someone knocks on the door. She welcomes Euandros warily, eyeing him with shamelessly obvious calculation.

Euandros looks no better in the grey light of morning. He’s shorter than you, if not by much, and is built along leaner lines and sharper angles. His hair is damp, but his clothes still smell like sour wine and the bags under his eyes are more like bruises. He stands straight under your wife’s stare, though, and his eyes, unclouded by drink, are sharp. “Is the offer still open?”

You glance at Astraia, who inclines her head as graciously as any noble-born lady. “We’d be pleased to have you along,” she says. “My name is Astraia, and in case my husband forgot, he is Kyros.”

You shrug, slightly embarrassed. Euandros laughs, and that is that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sharing (part of) your life story with strangers while drunk: euandros in ten words or less


	3. Aleka & Diokles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ZEUS IS CANONICALLY A FURRY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this says "drabble series" but the road to hell is paved with good intentions

Euandros proves to be an enjoyable companion. He drinks as often as he can, and is prone to sarcasm and bouts of melancholy, but he knows a number of stories he’s more than willing to share, and any bitterness is quickly chased away by a witty remark or a joke. He is quick to pick up on Astraia’s discomfort, and makes sure to keep a polite distance between them, hovering on your other side and squinting at anyone who meets his eyes.

The road is hard and stony, generously littered with potholes and tree roots. It’s better than the forest, with its winding animal trails, but not by much. The three of you meander along, swapping jokes and telling tales. Euandros fought for longer than you, and more frequently, and is quick to offer the two of you tips for using a sword or a knife. Astraia soaks up his words with a cruel curve to her lips, and you silently wonder at how you such an amazing woman agreed to marry you.

Euandros is halfway through his latest anecdote - an army-days memory involving three of his friends, too much wine, a wooden sword and a wild goat - when a high, inhuman squeal pierces the air. Astraia flinches but pulls out her knife, while you and Euandros draw your swords, nudging her between you. Something large crashes through the forest to your left. The three of you wait, all but quivering with tension, but it seemingly passes you by, fading away.

A minutes passes, then two, and Euandros sheaths his sword with a huff. You follow suit. Astraia hesitates, but vanishes the knife up her sleeve. “It ran towards the village.”

“Of course it did,” Euandros mutters. “Gods forbid something  _ avoids _ humans for once.”

You walk in silence, pressed closed. Nothing else happens, but this is Greece, where mortal and immortal, human and inhuman, mingle like teenagers at a party - awkward and likely to end in tears. You do not let your guard down.

The village, like the others you’ve seen, is small. Simple buildings are clustered together, a simple wooden sign painted with a boar’s head marking the inn. Unlike the others, this village has what looks like half its population in the middle of a screaming match.

“- vicious beast!” A man with a thick russet beard is howling. He looms over a woman in a stained shirt and pants. “Tearing up the forest, scaring away the game - what’s to say it won’t turn on us next? It needs to be stopped!”

“ _ He _ is still learning how to control his temper, and your shrieking is hardly going to assist with that, no matter how loud or high you get!” The woman screams back, either ignorant or uncaring of the irony. “He’s still a child-!”

“THAT BEAST IS NO CHILD!”

The bushes nearest to the shouters rustle, sending villagers scrambling back with yells of alarm. The woman jerks around, stepping forward with her hands raised. The bearded man backs away rapidly, paling.

“Hey, sorry,” you say to the nearest villager, “but what exactly is going on here?”

The man spits. “Just that woman and her monster bastard,” he grumbles. “We don’t want it here, but she refuses to get rid of it. Child, pah! That thing is a murderer waiting to happen.” He glares, spits again, and slinks off when the bushes rustle again.

“Sounds fun,” Euandros muses, nudging your shoulder.

It does, but Astraia -

“Excuse me,” your wife calls, approaching the woman, “are you alright?”

\- is going to drag you into this, like it or not. “Probably,” you agree. Attitude is important, and a positive outlook makes everything easier.

Astraia turns to you, waving you closer. Her eyes are burning again, the way they do whenever Zeus is mentioned. “Husband,” she says, “come meet Aleka.”

Aleka has bright green eyes and a fierce grin. “So I hear you’re gonna punch the old storm cloud in the face.”

“That’s the plan.” Aleka is the same size as your wife, if broader in the shoulders and hips, but she is no less intimidating. More, perhaps. “Are you…?”

“You heard that asshole,” she scoffs, waving at the villagers. They’re mostly dispersed, but a few are lingering with pointedly uninterested expressions. They’re not fooling anyone. Aleka narrows her eyes at you. “Ten years ago, I encountered a man in the forest. He was a pig, I told him, he took offense, and bam, nine months later I have a son who’s half boar.”

“...Boar.”

“Yes.” Her mouth twists unpleasantly.

“...So he had, what… a boar head? When he was born?” Euandros doesn’t seem sure whether he wants to know or not, and honestly, this conversation is quickly approaching uncomfortable levels for you.   
“It doesn’t matter,” you cut them off quickly. “Would you like to come along?”

“You’re welcome to bring Diokles, of course,” Astraia adds, touching her elbow. “But it would be nice to have another woman along, and Euandros is teaching me how to stab people.”

Aleka purses her lips. “There’s a reason Diokles is unpopular, and it’s not just because of his looks,” she warns. “He’s - aggressive.”

“No wonder, if he has to deal with men like this all day,” Astraia huffs. “We don’t mind, do we husband?”

A little, actually, but - he’d only be, what, nine? Nine years old, and his village hates him. He might be violent, but you’re almost twenty-six, Euandros a couple years older, and you’re all armed. You’ll all be fine. And Astraia’s right - it would be nice to have a mother along. You’re an orphan, and her own mother passed a month after your marriage. Astraia had been begging help from the neighbours when you returned. Anyone who can help Astraia with her pregnancy is welcomed in your books. “Not at all.”

Euandros shrugs carelessly, staring at the bushes. “He’s in there, then?”

A low snuffle, and the thin, leafy branches part.

Diokles is large for his age, reaching the middle of your chest. His shoulders are wide and hunched, his legs short and stocky. His neck is thick, easily  the size of his waist. His head, long and angular, sports a narrow forehead, muzzle-like mouth and nose, heavy jowls, and cute boar ears. His entire body is covered in hide, brown and hairy. When he snarls, you glimpse two tiny tusks just beginning to grow in.

Astraia smiles back, warm as summer. “Hello, Diokles,” she says. “My name is Astraia. It's lovely to meet you.”

“Kyros,” you introduce, and Euandros follows.

Aleka steps closer, running a tender hand over his forehead. She scratches behind his ear, and her son lets out a pleased huff. Her eyes are very soft. “They're travelling north, my love. If you want to come, we have a place with them.”

Diokles flinches back and squeals. It's instantly recognisable as the sound from earlier. You feel a little guilty that you pulled your sword on a child, but only slightly. You didn't know, and safety is better than sorrow.

Aleka tuts and rubs his cheek. “Hush,” she scolds. “They've been very kind so far. Astraia is in a similar position as I was, and she needs someone she can talk to.” Leaning closer, she whispers mock-conspiratorially, “Kyros has a plan to show your father  _ exactly _ what he thinks of his actions. If you can control yourself, you can help.”

Diokles stomps a foot, eyeing you distrustfully, and presses against his mother's side, tangling his hands into her shirt. Aleka holds him close and nods. “We will accompany you,” she agrees.

Your wife beams. Diokles is staring at her, beady eyes bewildered. If the other villagers are any indication, this is probably the first time anyone other than his other has smiled at him with genuine kindness. You ignore a trickle of pity - you've never met anyone who appreciates it. “Lovely,” Astraia says. “I can help you pack. We don't have a donkey or anything, so I'm afraid there’ll be a lot of walking.”

“We'll be fine.” Aleka rubs Diokles on the head, then gently detangles herself. She squares her shoulders, raises her chin, and smirks widely. “If you’re not planning to tarry, I think I know how I can help you with your transport problem. There may be some running involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: "diokles" translates along the lines of "glory of zeus"  
> aleka is salty af and not afraid to show it

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: http://hermdoggydog.tumblr.com/post/154269870995/writing-prompt-s-youre-an-ancient-greek-man
> 
> If you're here for Greek culture, mythology, or history, prepare to be disappointed. Sorry.


End file.
